


The Price We Pay For Love

by AnnieVH



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Family, Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 16:02:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9615236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnieVH/pseuds/AnnieVH
Summary: Uncle Rudy is dead and the Holmes have no idea how to comfort their eldest son.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: mentions of suicide, grief, and murder.  
> Beta: MaddieBonanaFana

 

In the solemn silence that followed the announcement, mummy stepped up to give him a hug, saying, “Oh, my darling, _darling_ boy, I am so sorry.”

Despite her massive intellect, she still believed physical contact to be most essential in times like this. Mycroft indulged her, as he usually did, but found it to be more oppressing than comforting and squirmed out of her arms as soon as a reasonable amount of time had passed.

Father, who'd been by her side, now sank into his ragged armchair and stared at the carpet. Mycroft wondered if he was about to cry, as he wasn't a man to shy away from emotion and this seemed like the proper situation for it. He almost hoped that he would, as awkward as that might make things, because at least that'd get mummy distracted.

Even Sherlock, who despised uncle Rudy and had only come to the impromptu family meeting because their mother had dragged him out of his bedroom, had gone quiet in his seat, his face changing from bored to focused as he watched Mycroft with red-rimmed, semi-sober eyes. Father was beginning to tear up but Sherlock was looking at _him_ as if expecting his older brother to have an emotional breakdown at any moment, as uncharacteristic as that might be.

Truth be told, he was barely holding it together.

“I'm glad you came home,” mummy said, no longer holding him but still invading enough of his personal space to make him uncomfortable. “I'm glad you came to us.”

“It's not the kind of news one gives over the phone.”

“No, of course not.”

“But I'm not staying.”

“Yes, you are,” she said, as expected. Mummy had aged into a rather predictable woman, which made her much easier to handle.

“Unfortunately, I can't,” Mycroft insisted. “There are arrangements that need to be made-”

“I'll be in charge of that. You cannot be expected to take care of such things, not for Rudy. You were both so very close-”

“He left me instructions-”

“And you're going to hand them over to me.”

Her voice was resolute, the kind that Mycroft found difficult to argue with and, when dad stood from his armchair, he thought he'd take Mummy's side, making everything more complicated, but he walked out of the house instead.

“You're better off leaving this to me and staying here with father,” Mycroft said, seeing an opportunity. “This will take its toll on him.”

“Whatever your father is going through, it has to be worse on you. You loved him more than any of us.”

She stroked his cheek and Mycroft had to fight the urge to step away from her. All of this expectation of grief felt wasted on him. Mycroft felt a lot of things he'd rather not. Anger, heartbreak, betrayal, guilt, to name a few. It was a long list. Grief was not on it.

“Being in charge of the funeral arrangements will give me closure,” he told her, which was not entirely true, but it was the one thing he knew mother would respect. Behind her, the left corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked up for the fraction of a second, recognizing the manipulation, and then his face was impassive again.

Mummy finally said, “If that is what you need to get by.”

“It is.”

She smoothed his jacket and took a step back. “At least stay the night. I'll make your favorite for dinner.”

He waited for Sherlock to take his cue and make a rude comment about his weight. There was none. When he caught him looking, his little brother simply shrugged with casual indifference.

“If it'll put your mind at ease,” Mycroft said.

“It will.”

“But I'll have to leave before breakfast.”

“As long as you stay the night. Sherlock, go make your brother's bed.”

“He knows how to make a-”

“ _Sherlock!_ ”

His younger brother groaned and whined and got up to do as he was told. Mycroft wished, not for the first time, that he'd learned that particular skill from their mother.

“I'll get started on the food. You should talk to your father,” mummy said. “He'll want to hear from you.”

Mycroft nodded and headed for their backyard, relieved to leave her and Sherlock behind. Father was sitting on the bench under the kitchen window, one hand covering his eyes as he sobbed softly.

“Should I leave you?” he asked.

Father looked up and shook his head. “Forgive your old man. I believe age is making me sentimental.”

“Happens to the best of us.”

Mycroft extended his handkerchief and father took it to dry his eyes, whispering a gentle, “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. He was your brother.”

Father huffed. “We were terrible brothers. The only thing we ever talked about was you.”

“The only thing I talk to Sherlock about is playing deductions.”

“Yes, but you don't fight over that.”

“We fight plenty. He hates that I'm smarter than him.”

That made his father chuckle. “I've always hated that Rudy was smarter than me too. And he was so smug about it. He never approved of the fact that his little brother was an idiot.”

“You're a doctor, father. You're not an idiot.”

“I am, according to Rudy. Clever men don't just settle with their wife and children on the countryside and leave a promising career behind.”

“Some would say that's the smartest thing a man can do.”

“ _Some_?”

“I might not be one of them,” Mycroft conceded, sitting next to him, “but they exist, or so I've heard.”

“That job of his,” father said, shaking his head. “Sometimes I wonder if it didn't suck every bit of humanity out of him. But at least he's always loved you.”

That took Mycroft by surprise and he didn't say anything. When his father looked away into the night, he whispered, “I don't believe uncle Rudy loved much of anything.”

“You he did,” father said, adamantly. “He was just rubbish at showing it.”

Mycroft had pondered about that since uncle Rudy's death, though he didn't agree with father on that aspect. He'd lived with uncle Rudy long enough to know he knew exactly how to show affection, he just did it in a more selective manner. There was only a handful of people he deemed worthy of his attention, and Mycroft had come to believe love had very little to do with it.

Looking back, it was naive to think a man who prided himself as detached and rational would stoop as low as to be given to bounds of affection, even for a favorite nephew, but he'd wholeheartedly believed that for a very long time. It was only recently that his entire perception of the man shifted so radically and that tainted everything.

From a very early age, Mycroft had an image in his head about the somber, sharply dressed man that came to visit them only every other month when he was a child and how he went out of his way to avoid him because uncle Rudy was a good person, but he detested children and noise and disorder. Still, he defied mummy's orders to leave him alone one night because the man was so fascinating. Everybody else was easy to read. He could look at his parents or neighbors and tell where they had been with nothing but a glance. Uncle Rudy, though, was a mystery. His clothes told no stories, his face was always impassive.

That night, even as he spotted his five-year-old nephew coming to him, he didn't betray his annoyance and simply told him, “Go play somewhere else, Mycroft,” between puffs of his pipe.

That hadn't deterred him. “Uncle Rudy, may I ask a question?”

He'd eyed at him and granted, “Quickly.”

“Why are you so lonely?”

That had caught his attention and it was satisfying to see his inexpressive face betray his surprise. “Why do you ask me that?”

Mycroft had shrugged. It was perhaps the only piece of the puzzle he'd been given. Uncle Rudy always came to the house alone, he barely socialized with the family, and he never had company for smoking, despite the fact that daddy liked to smoke as well.

“I'm a clever man,” he'd explained. “People are intimidated by that.”

Mycroft nodded, processing the information.

“I'm clever too,” he'd responded, after a moment. “I guess that's why no one will play with me.”

He'd always looked back at that moment with some fondness – a sentimentality his uncle would have frowned upon – when uncle Rudy almost smiled at him and ran a hand through his hair, gesturing acceptance more than love. Mycroft assumed he'd made the decision of taking his nephew under his wing because Mycroft reminded him of his younger self, a lonely, clever child who could've gone much further in life if only he'd gotten the proper tutelage.

Now, he was wondering if maybe lovely, clever children were just easier to shape and to manipulate. Uncle Rudy might have had a soft spot for Mycroft and, in many ways, he'd done him a favor by bringing him up with a clear goal in mind, something t focus on. Had this much responsibility not been entrusted upon him, he might have ended up like Sherlock, a barely functional junkie who'd resorted to unspeakable things just to make his powerful mind a little bit bearable. But no... no, Mycroft knew better than to think this had been a decision out of love. It had been cunning and calculating, as everything else the old man did.

“You're his successor,” father stated.

Mycroft nodded. “I am.”

“I don't want you to take this job.”

Mycroft, who was prepared for that, started saying, very patiently, “He's groomed me for this moment my entire life, father, and I understand your concern, but I've already been contacted by-”

“Oh, I have no illusions you'll take the job, regardless of what I say,” he explained. “Rudyard made sure you were keen on it, the bastard. Nothing I can say will change your mind.”

“No, I don't believe it can.”

“But I'm not happy about it and I want that to be very clear.”

 _I'm not entirely happy about it either_ , Mycroft thought. It had crossed his mind to turn his back on the offer and leave everything relating to uncle Rudy behind. However, that rebellious streak lasted about an hour. He'd spent 25 years being prepared for this position. The problem solver. The miracle worker. The one the British government recurred to when they were out of their depths. He'd excel at it. The one profession that was suitable to his intellect and that would keep his mind both busy and sane.

And then there was the matter of Eurus. If he walked away now, there was no telling what would come of her.

There was no telling what she might do to other people, either.

“It's only a small position,” Mycroft said to his father, which was the same lie uncle Rudy had been telling the family for decades. Father didn't believe it any more now than he had in the past.

However, he wasn't looking at him with skepticism. It was something else.

“What is it?”

“I wish I knew how to talk to you.”

More than mummy's hug, father's words pierced through his armor and made his heart sting.

“You are talking to me,” he said.

“You know what I mean. Rudy talked to you. He knew what to say, how to get to you to open up. I suppose that's why I'm crying.” He pressed Mycroft's handkerchief to his eyes again. “It's not for that bastard, it's you. It's... I don't even know how to comfort you. I-”

“Dad?”

Mycroft had never been more relieved to hear his brother's voice.

“Mum said she wants to talk to you.”

Father got up, giving Mycroft's thigh a soft squeeze in place of all the words he didn't know how to say. On his way to the door, he smiled at his sons.

“You boys are lucky,” he said. “At least you understand each other. That's a good thing.”

He expected Sherlock to follow their father inside, but instead he stood by the wall, looking down at him. He'd put on a hoodie over the shirt he'd been wearing for the past three days, but it managed to look even filthier. He was twenty two years old now, but with his choice in fashion, as well as his erratic behavior, he might easily pass for fifteen.

Sherlock said, “You look massively uncomfortable.”

Mycroft sighed. “Good observational skills.”

From the front pocket of his hoodie, he produced a cigarette.

“Low tar,” he said, when his brother aimed a curious look at him. “I assumed you'd need it.”

Mycroft accepted it and allowed Sherlock to light it up for him.

“Does Mummy know dad's smoking again?” Mycroft asked, after a deep drag.

“She doesn't even notice when I'm high.”

“Sherlock...”

“It's the only way I can bear uncle Rudy, even in mention.”

Mycroft felt himself smiling at that. Uncle Rudy had a similar thought regarding his youngest nephew, except it involved a lot of whiskey. Not that the two of them had interacted much since Sherlock outed him as a cross-dresser in front of the entire family and two important government officials during a Christmas dinner.

“It's also the only way I can bear their stupid rules,” Sherlock said, cocking his head to indicate mummy and father.

“That's what happens when you're unemployed and unambitious, dear brother.”

“Spoken like a true Rudyard Holmes.”

Foreseeing another serious talk about his future surfacing, Sherlock turned around to go back into the house.

“We need to talk.”

“I have no intention to be lectured, Mycroft, I don't care who died and made you king of the British.”

“I'm not king of the British, and this is not about your drug habit. I need an opinion. Go fetch my briefcase.”

The request must have intrigued him because Sherlock did as he was told without questioning. Once he was back, Mycroft pulled a thick file from inside the briefcase and handed it over to him.

“This stays between us.”

“What does?”

“It's the police report on the incident. I want you to read it before we go inside.”

“Why? If you suspect something, don't you have access to the entire Scotland Yard now?”

“I don't have suspicions, I just want to make sure I'm not overlooking anything.”

Sherlock frowned, but took the file anyway. “You'll owe me a favor.”

He settled on the bench and Mycroft paced the backyard, taking long drags of the cigarette. When he was done, Sherlock offered, without looking up, “I can nick another one from dad's coat.”

“No need.”

“I might do it anyway. They're shit, but they're better than nothing.”

When Mycroft didn't retort to that, Sherlock glanced up from the police report, then back down again. He said, “Mum thinks you're grief-stricken.”

“Is that so?”

“I just overheard them talking. Apparently, you're too shocked for tears and you're trying to be strong, but that's just another form of grief.”

“Grief is pointless.”

Sherlock smirked. “Yes, you told me that once. I think uncle Rudy was the one to teach you that.”

“It was. And I stand by it.”

“Doesn't mean you had no feelings for the man.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Why else would you be making such an effort to cover this up?”

Mycroft felt his heart getting caught in his throat.

“Cover what up?”

Sherlock held up a photograph. Uncle Rudy's corpse, sprawled on the floor of his study, half of his head blown off. Mycroft turned his face away. He couldn't look at it, not again.

“This isn't a man who shot himself accidentally, and the M. E.'s report doesn't match what I'm seeing. This was very much self-inflicted.”

Slowly, his muscles began relaxing, but he made sure that didn't show on his face.

“Not that anyone believed you in there,” Sherlock continued, putting the police report back in order. “Accidentally shot himself cleaning his gun. When did uncle Rudy ever clean his gun? I don't even think he knows how to shoot.”

“Knew.”

“What?”

“He knew how to shoot, is what you mean. And he did.” After a beat, he added, “He taught me.”

Sherlock went quiet. Then, “Don't tell Mummy you own a gun. She'll put her foot down and call the Queen herself if she thinks you're getting shot at.”

Mycroft thought of the weight the weapon in his hand. The thickness of blood. The smell of powder.

“She has nothing to worry,” Mycroft said. “I have no intent on ever carrying a gun.”

“The reports are convincing and I don't think either mum or dad will ask to see it. If it's his legacy you're worried about, rumors will be rumors, but I don't believe suicide will be the first thing people think when they think of uncle Rudy.”

“No, thanks to you it'll be lacy knickers.”

Sherlock chuckled at that. “I simply stated the facts.”

“Unnecessarily out loud, if I recall.”

“Criminology is a fascinating subject,” Sherlock said, changing the subject quickly as he leafed through the papers one last time. “Perhaps I'll drop out of it in the future.”

He smiled as if his lack of dedication were something to be joked about, and Mycroft could almost hear uncle Rudy's voice admonishing him. _He'll drag us all down with him, Mycroft, just like the girl almost did. They are a stain in the family name._ And then he'd dropped to a poisonous tone Mycroft had grown familiar with. In many ways, it reminded him of Eurus' voice when she was trying to manipulate someone into doing her bidding. For all he knew, she'd learned from the best. _I can have a cell for him as well, Mycroft. It will be right next to the girl so they won't be alone. We will finally put his brain to good use, we will save lives_.

His clever little brother trapped in isolation. He wouldn't survive that. Nearly twenty years of it had done nothing for Eurus but twist her into someone he could barely recognize, someone who'd learned to use the worst parts of herself to survive.

Sherlock wouldn't allow himself to be twisted that way. He wouldn't change or bend or learn. He'd simply snap.

“Don't you want this back?”

Mycroft blinked into attention, realizing that Sherlock was holding the police report up, handing it to him. Mycroft shoved it back into his briefcase and snapped it close, hiding the horrible pictures and the crooked facts out of sight.

“Mummy is right,” he said. “You _are_ shaken up.”

“Sober up before dinner, Sherlock,” Mycroft told him, walking back into the house.

The sooner they got through this dinner, the sooner he'd be allowed to leave.

 


End file.
